


Lullaby for a Soldier

by chemicalburnfromthespiralperm



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mental Instability, Season/Series 07, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 18:04:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7116853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemicalburnfromthespiralperm/pseuds/chemicalburnfromthespiralperm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>May your dreams bring you peace in the darkness.  May you always rise over the rain.  May the light from above always lead you to love.  May you stay in the arms of the angels.  When the hand no longer keeps the devil away, Sam explores other options.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lullaby for a Soldier

Sam was born into blood.  He was raised in it, raised by it and raised for it.  He knows what it smells like, what it feels like and what it tastes like between his teeth and how it moves between his bones like a spirit seeking peace.  It was always sticky, always left you with a feeling that never disappeared.  You always felt it long after it was gone.  You're covered in blood until you're covered in your own blood, family don't end in blood, if it bleeds you can kill it.  Sam's whole life revolves around blood and how much of it is on his hands or in his mouth.

He just wants a minute of silence, maybe even two...  but Satan Vision is demanding today.  

Lucifer laugh's from the corner -- Calvin and Hobbes.  Sam remembers reading it in his childhood.  It used to be his favorite.

 _Used to be_.

"This fuckin' guy!  This little tiger!  Do you think he's crazy like you are, Sam, the little kid?  Real loose canon, right?"

Sam rubs at his hand but he barely even feels it, Lucifer doesn't even budge, barely notices Sam even moving outside of cleaning his armory.  He wonders why he's got a litany of weapons in front of him and not a single fucking one can kill this illness.  He wonders if a bullet to his head would be as forgiving to him, if that really would end it or if Lucifer would just bring him right back.

"Shut up."

"I mean, he's gotta be.  Eight year old kid talking to his stuffed tiger?  Am I your stuffed tiger, Sammy?  Are we gonna go on adventures and learn about friendship and sharing?  Maybe your brother and I could teach you a little about _sharing_.  You were real good at that downstairs."

A litany of weapons and not a single one of them will help him.  He prays for death because maybe he isn't man enough to do it himself, or maybe the idea that Dean would be just as fucked up as he was if he ever actually did go through it stops him from ever doing it.  The knife he's holding slips (ya.  "slips.") and his hand is split wide open all over again.  Dean's stitches are ruined and Sam's bleeding all over his jeans, but at least Lucifer stopped cackling.

"God damnit, Sam, we talked about this --"

"Dean!  Dean, I-I need your help!"

"You can't just get rid of me!"

Lucifer rises from his seat, but Sam just slices at his hand again and Lucifer disappears.

He slams his hand on the table, leans over it, breathing heavy.  He's nervous, can't quite seem to catch his breath and when Dean comes in he curses.  Sam wishes he could hear him but he can't.  It's like his ears are clogged and his heart is breaking, literally.  He can't do this anymore, this hallucinating thing, not when it hurts like this.

"Sam?  Sam!  Sam, listen to me!  You're not with him, you're with me!  Sammy!"

It's like everything comes rushing back all at once and now Sam really can't breathe, even with Dean's hands all over him.  He looks down at his hands and wonders when the hell he sliced himself up like that?  Where did all this blood come from?

Dean gets him into a chair and shoves his head between his legs.

"You don't stop breathin' like that, you're gonna make yourself bleed out!  Calm down, Sam!"

After a few moments, Dean supplies their first aid kit out of no where and he's hauling Sam up so he can look at his hand.

"What happened?"

Sam shakes his head, winces when Dean pours alcohol on the cut.  There's too much blood everywhere and he can smell it.  Or maybe it's just a scent that sticks with him and he'll never really be rid of it.

"I...  I got distracted."

"What really _happened_ , Sam?"

He recalls what his visions felt like and these fuckin' flashbacks to the cage feel no different.  He loses himself in them, in the freezing cold touches and hands in too many places at once.  

"I got distracted, Dean.  That's what happened.  Ow!"

Dean doesn't listen to him, just keeps moving, cleaning, sewing.  Being mom.  It's what he does when he doesn't know what else to do.  The one constant in his life.  He's almost grateful for it, no matter how badly it hurts.

"You got distracted.  Okay.  Are you alright now?"  It doesn't seem like Dean buys his excuse, because for Sam, distracted could mean a whole fuckin' lot of this, so Sam's grateful that Dean at least has the gall to trust Sam.  "No freaky visions?  We alone?"

"We're alone.  Please stop talking."

 Dean's glaring at him -- Sam doesn't have to look up to know that.

The stitches wear fine, the days pass and there's a gremlin in Michigan that needs reaping.  Sam and Dean make it out by sundown and finish the hunt three days later.  Everything runs like clockwork -- there's things that need to be taken care of, people that need saving and none of the names are "Sam" or "Dean."  Sam's fine, nothing wrong, doesn't get serenaded by the devil when he's brushing his teeth.  Can't even touch himself without the devil laughing.  Dean won't touch him either.  Isn't lack of touch what creates serial killers?  Sam considers it, briefly, but his brother is a hunter.  If anyone would catch him it's Dean.

They're in a Winco in Boise when Sam sees a set of razors in the hygiene aisle.  Lucifer's got two lufas stuffed down his shirt to look like breasts and Sam slams his hand into the shelf.

Lucifer disappears, but he's back a half a second later with a can of shaving cream, ready and aimed at Sam's hair.

"You'll look lovely as a blonde, Sam.  Trust me."

Sam buys the razors.

They stay tucked in the bottom of his duffel, normal and inconspicuous next to the deodorant and the toothpaste.  Dean doesn't talk to him much anymore, not about anything that isn't a hunt or finding Dick Roman.  Castiel is gone and it hits Dean harder than he lets on.  Cas was his best friend.  Sam can accept that because he's the brother and no one comes before Sam in Dean's mind.  Even the car comes before Castiel, but Cas is up there.  Cas is important.  Cas tried to be God and broke the wall in Sam's head and that's why Lucifer is on a constant loop in his head, but he still can't blame him.  That's not in his nature.  Everyone is a hero in their own way.

Sam unwraps the bandages from his hand.  He can hear the motel TV in the background playing Jeopardy as Dean shouts out answers.

"Ohio!"

"...Idaho," Sam mutters into the mirror.

" _Ah, the answer?  What is Idaho.  Kim, you're next_."

"Damnit.  Don't pick the Broadway category!  Jesus Christ...  Sammy!  Who wrote Merrily We Roll Along?"

Sam's been locked up in this bathroom too long doing nothing but looking at himself in the mirror.  He's too tired to answer Dean so he doesn't, and Dean doesn't call for him again.

What he's standing here wondering is -- why doesn't he just do it himself?  If he just does it now, it'll be over.  There won't be any more Lucifer because Lucifer is really in the cage and can't just bring him back.  There won't be any more lies or hurt or pain...

But then he hears Dean laugh and remembers why.

Sam turns the faucet on and splashes himself with cold water.  He's got to talk to Dean about this, but if he does and Dean just gets angry with him?  There are more important things to worry about other than Sam losing his mind.  He can't just quit.  He's too far into this and he's made it through so many other things.  You have to keep fighting, always keep fighting, even if the Devil is screaming in your head...  you have to keep fighting.

Sam's attention is caught by the light glinting off the pack of fresh razors sitting on the counter next to him.  Dean had just been on a toiletry run.  They're bags are stuff full of brand new things, and the pack of razors just happens to be sitting there.  Lucifer is rambling on about some 49ers game from the 70's, screaming about how it should have gone.

Those razors...  the pain...  It would make Lucifer go away.  It would keep him quiet, for the night, at least.

He sits on the closed toilet lid and is diligent about taking apart the razor.  It has five blades, which is enough to last Sam quite a while and still not enough to draw attention to himself.  They're tiny, and Lucifer is screaming at him the entire time.  Don't do this, Sam.  I'm here because I deserve to be.

Ya, and Sam deserves to lose his mind.

The first slice across his skin feels like someone is pouring acid on him, but the pain is worth it because what follows suit is silence.  Literal silence.  The only thing he can hear is the muttering coming from the TV.  Maybe Dean cracks open a beer bottle.  Doesn't matter because Sam is alone with his fucking thoughts.

He slices again, longer this time, just to ensure his vacation from the screaming for a little bit longer.

"Sammy!  Rise and shine!"

He wakes up the next morning to being thwacked with a pillow -- nothing violent, just enough to shake him from his reverie.  He feels hungover, though he didn't partake in any drinking.  The only thing he'd done was spread his blood all over his skin.  He can feel where it's dried and cracking on his leg as he sits up, favors it a little and...  hears nothing.  There's no sounds.  The sink is running, Dean's singing along badly to something on the clock radio...  but he's alone.

You can't really beat the devil, but you can win him at his own game.

He does a little every day, small cuts up and down his legs.  He finds that keeping it localized, three long lines across his thigh that Dean will never see, high enough that they don't bother him when they're hunting, and enough to be covered by his boxer briefs, that it's easier to keep Lucifer at bay.  He keeps reopening the same three cuts until those hurt too much and he moves on to the next leg.  Three cuts that never bleed too much but he still finds himself sliding his hands through the viscous fluid, tainting his hands.  He licks the iron from his fingers until he's ready to step in the shower.  The wounds sting as they're pounded by too-hot heat from the shower head and that keeps him sane a little longer.

"Sammy, what's the hold up?!"

Dean's banging on the bathroom door.  Fuck.  He hadn't expected to be in here so long.  He throws his razor in the trashcan and pulls his jeans up over his thighs.  He didn't have time to clot them or bandage them up or anything.  Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

"I'm coming!  I'm coming, shut up, Dean."

"Put your dick away, Sammy, we got a case!"

"Christ," he says, barging out and slamming the door behind him.  "Your highness?  Do we need to leave NOW?"

"Yes!  Coffee!  They got a Starbucks here, Sammy.  You can get your queer ass vanilla latte.  You can -- wait, y'okay, Sammy?"

"I'm fine.  Can we just go?"

Dean doesn't question his mood swing.  He just rolls his eyes like a big brother, claps him on the back and they're out the door.  Sam doesn't say much from the motel to the Starbucks, just gives Dean his order and tries to focus on his phone.  He's grateful his thighs are holding up.  He's thinking about how much longer he can do this, go on like this.  Dean hasn't touched him since he came clean about his hallucinations.  Sam feels lucky that Dean even looks at him, but he can tell their relationship is strained.  Dean's not fucking anyone else, so maybe he should feel lucky.  He just feels dirty.

He falls asleep in the car ten minutes after they get Starbucks.  He feels Dean grab his coffee out of his hand, but after that it's all a blur until they get to Monterey.  He sleeps so much but he still feels exhausted when he wakes.  Dean's not in the car but they're parked outside a gas station so Sam can only guess where he is.  When he sits up in the seat his back cracks and his neck creaks but he feels a little more rested.  He's bleary eyed and it's hot in California even though it's only April.  Vampires in California.  What a trip.  Regardless of their reason for being there, Sam sits up anyway.  He feels sweaty and damp, but when he stretches there's a bitter, sharp stab from his leg.  Blood is flowering against the faded denim.  He knew this was gonna happen.

Sam has never moved so fast in his life.  He's scrambling out of his seat, digging through his duffel to find a new pair of jeans.  Once they're in hand he's back in his seat and shimmying out of the soiled ones faster than anyone's gotten him out of his jeans since _Ruby_.  There's blood everywhere and he has no idea how long Dean's been gone or when he'll be back.  He uses the dirty jeans to clean himself up but all it really does is smear the redness across his skin.  Fuck.  Fuck!

He pulls the new jeans on in a frenzy and tosses the other ones back in his back.  It's all very sudden that Dean is back in the car less than five seconds later, catches Sam zipping up his jeans.

"What're you doing, Sam?  Couldn't get to the bathroom in time?"

"Shut up."  He's huffing, can barely breathe, can barely see.  Christ.  "I...  Pregnant woman had to use the bathroom real bad."

"There were two bathrooms?"

"Ya, well, someone else was in the other one!  You want a play by play?  Need to know the size of my dick, too?"

Dean scoffs.  "You don't have to be nasty, besides -- I'm pretty sure my ass won't ever forget.  You ready to go?  You've been asleep for like three hours.  You want some food or something?  I grabbed some sodas."

His brother started off teasing him but slowly turned into actual caring, actual intimacy you'd get from a significant other.  It knocks Sam over so fast he can't hardly see straight.  It makes his mouth go dry.  Maybe it's the bloodloss.

"I'm...  Did you get water?"

Dean looks at him sideways, with that poor look he always gets on his face when he can't decide whether to kiss him or coddle him.

"Of course I got you water, Sam.  I even got you a couple protein bars, the yogurt peanut ones you like.  The Premier Protein bars, right?"

"Y-yeah.  Those are perfect.  Thank you.  Look, I'm...  I'm sorry about -- "

"Shut up.  Don't."  Dean shoves the keys into the ignition and starts the car, engine purring with her discontent for their unhappiness.  "It's fine.  Okay?  You've...  We've both got a lot on our plate.  I understand.  You don't gotta go apologizing.  I get it, okay?"

Sam shakes his head.  "You don't, not really.  But you sympathize.  So, that's fine.  Thank you.  I'm doing the best I can, Dean.  I see him when I'm trying to fall asleep at night, when I'm...  when I take a piss in the morning.  He's just there, he's always there."

"Is he here now?"

"No."

"Good."

Dean leans across the bench seat and kisses Sam soundly, a completely unsexy kiss with Dean's lips planted firmly on Sam's, but Sam leans into it anyway, and he finally realizes that he was starving for touch.  Dean can sense it because he looses his grip a little, lets his tongue slip out and slide into Sam's mouth.  It's gentler now, Dean's tongue sweeping across Sam's bottom lip before dipping in past his teeth to snug against his own tongue.

"Dean --"

"Shh, Sam.  It's okay.  Go back to sleep."  He says it in such a way that Sam can only pray for sleep, such a delicate command but not even a command in its entirety.  It's soft, the crinkles around Dean's eyes just as soft as he looks into Sam's kaleidoscope eyes like the meaning of life is there.  "I'll wake you when we get to Folsom."

Folsom is a trip in and of itself.  Half the town is a lake, and the other half is hoity toity big wigs -- rich white people with their homes built on top of tall mountains that over look the lake.  Folsom Lake.  They drive by the prison, but you can't see anything.  Lots of ugly grass and fences that are too tall, but it feels a little cool to be at THE Folsom Prison.  Dean plays "Folsom Prison Blues" as they drive away and Sam laughs.  There aren't even any motels in town.  They end up staying outside of the town, some place called Citrus Heights in a motel called Ranch Motel.  It's ugly red and brown and the walls are nasty and Sam comments on the meth huddle going on outside of their room that afternoon when they check in, but it has to do.  There's a McDonalds across the street, a Naught N' Nice store down the street from that.  They also pass a mall on their way in, giant Macy's building hovering over the city like it owns the place.  

They're on the hunt for a vampire nest, and it never dawned on Sam that gushing wounds and vampires probably aren't the best thing.  That night while they're scrambling for their lives, he's the first one they take down, and he's not quick enough to save himself.  One of them shoves their nasty teeth in his neck, the other breaks Sam's rib.  He blacks out after that.  He wakes up an indeterminate amount of time later.

Dean's holding his hand.  He's watching some shitty TV show on the box in the room.  He hates the smell of chemicals and everything hurts.  Dean wouldn't have risked them going to a hospital if it weren't serious.  If Sam hadn't almost died.

"Dean."

He throws the remote to the ground and turns his full attention on Sam.  "Sammy?  Sam!  Sam, why didn't you tell me?  Sam, I'm...  Are you okay?  You hurtin'?"  Sam swallows around his tongue, holds onto Dean's hand tighter if he can.  "Is he here?  Is he here, right now?"

Sam doesn't need to ask who he's talking about.  There's no devil here, not between these white walls, though Sam feels that if he were going to be anywhere, it'd be here.

"N-No.  We're alone."

"Now, Sammy...  you're gonna be honest with me and I'm not gonna be mad.  Okay?  I'm scared, so I'm not gonna be mad.  Are you trying...  Are you trying to --"

"To _kill_ myself?  You said it yourself, you're real.  I'm real.  Pain is real.  Lucifer isn't.  My hand stopped hurting until that second time I broke it open.  I couldn't keep hurting my hand because I'd be useless on hunts if I can't hold things or pick things up.  So I cut my legs.  It keeps him away, Dean.  It lets me sleep.  It-It stops him from being here.  I haven't seen him in a week!"

"Sammy, you can't...  You can't keep doing this."

Dean's eyes are wet.  He's actually scared.

"I don't know how else to make him stop, Dean.  There's no other way."

He shakes his head, leans away but doesn't let go of Sam's hand.

"You can't do this, Sam.  I almost lost you, and not just because of some stupid vampire.  Do you know how much blood you lost when they tore you open?  You almost died on the way here.  I don't ever want to see you in a place like this again, baby boy.  You can't do this to me.  Not now.  Not now, baby."

Sam brings Dean's hand up to his lips.  He kisses his hand not just once, but several times.

"I'm sorry, Dean."

"I'm sorry, too."


End file.
